


Perfect Storm

by LavenderJam



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, Daemon Hurting, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Something about apples not falling far from trees and unbroken cycles, The League of St Alexander, The storm rages inside and out, post-Great Flood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28359492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderJam/pseuds/LavenderJam
Summary: “She?” her mother said, and Marisa nodded. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought that Maman’s eyes had softened. “You had a daughter.”“Yes.” Marisa frowned. “You didn’t know?”The lizard let out a hiss. “How could I have known? The papers only referred to her as your…” Maman shivered. “…love child, andyoudid not answer a single one of my letters, nor have you had thedecencyto come home to Geneva and explain yourself.”(Madame Delamare confronts Marisa in the wake of the scandal.)
Relationships: Marisa Coulter & Madame Delamare
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Perfect Storm

**Author's Note:**

> “What are you going to do with the girl once I’ve got her for you?”  
> “Wring the truth out of her. Punish her. Make her truly sorry. Then, when I’ve broken her will I shall _educate_ her properly. Give her a true sense of who she is and what her priorities should be. Mould her into the woman her _mother_ should have lived to be.” – The Secret Commonwealth, Philip Pullman

The day had started bright and balmy and clear, but by nightfall the faultless sky had been infected by storm clouds. Marisa had watched the weather turn from her study, the warmth of the sun dissipating as dull, grey clouds blanketed the city, the sweet smell of honeysuckle overwhelmed by cloying molecules of ozone, sent down from the stratosphere to herald a thunderstorm. Now, the granite of the street glistened like the stone itself was weeping and the gutters were almost filled to bursting. Marisa sent a silent prayer that another flood wasn’t on its way; the townhouse’s cellar was still in dire need of redecorating after the Great Flood had ruined the ancient woodwork only weeks ago. 

A flash of lightning illuminated the incensed sky, the rainclouds black and wicked, and then a boom of thunder followed, some six seconds later. “Just over a mile away,” she murmured to her dæmon. He was watching the storm unfold from the windowsill, as they’d often done when she’d been just a girl, mesmerised by the boundless rage of nature.

She turned back to her report with a sigh, stifling a yawn as she scanned the list of names. The first sheet detailed those who had been turned in by the League, and the second noted which individual had had the nerve to do it. Marisa’s eyes scoured the page for matching surnames, the corner of her lip quirking up as she found a few families in the report, parents splayed on one page, children on the other. Both lists were shorter than she desired, however: her project was struggling to obtain recruits in London, the cosmopolitan temperament of the capital making aggressive opposition inevitable. Marisa made a note in her diary to visit the city’s biggest schools and implore the children to join the initiative herself. While she wasn’t thrilled to add another set of engagements to her schedule, she could not pretend that she was surprised: the officers who’d been begrudgingly assigned to her fledging venture were tepid, guileless men, to whom ensnaring the imaginations of children must have seemed an abstract task. Proving herself indispensable had never been simpler.

Having examined the report thoroughly, Marisa signed the dotted line at the bottom of the page with a flourish and then placed the sheet in the out tray, where it sat neatly atop the inch-thick stack of papers already waiting to be mailed.

As she began to scour the next document her pen scratched against the page, scarcely a drop of ink left to lubricate the nib. She wrenched open her desk drawer, but before she could spy the bottle of black liquid, her gaze fell to another of the drawer’s items: a stack of letters, a few opened, many more still sealed.

She’d recognised the infuriatingly perfect cursive that marred the outside of the envelopes as soon as the first letter had been slotted through her front door, a week after the scandal had first hit the papers. She’d made the mistake of reading that initial letter and had deepened the wound with the next two that followed, her mother’s righteous fury at her misdeeds made increasingly more potent by Marisa’s continued lack of response. She’d received fourteen letters over the past few months, and though she hadn’t opened any more after the bile of the third had risen so swiftly off the page it had made her nauseous, she couldn’t bring herself to burn them just yet. Instead, they remained hidden away in her desk beside her letter opener and her penknife, another weapon to shred herself on should the urge become overwhelming.

Another bolt of lightning brightened the room and Marisa slammed the drawer closed, the bottle of fresh ink forgotten. Instead, she rubbed her aching temples with her fingers, her eyes drooping, the mere sight of the letters enough to have her scratching at her wrist. Her dæmon leapt to her desk and sighed. “You’re obsessive, you know. You don’t need to read everything yourself.”

She glared at him. “You expect me to entrust this project – our _one_ lifeline back into the world – into the hands of another?”

“No, but – ”

“Then shut up, won’t you? It cannot fail. It cannot be anything less than perfect, and you and I both know that we cannot rely on anyone else to achieve perfection.”

He sighed and started towards the door. She frowned.

“Where are you going?”

“You might want to spend half the night in here again, but that doesn’t mean I have to.”

She worked in silence for another few minutes, the familiar ache spreading through her chest like rancid treacle as her dæmon wandered through the house to the kitchen, but soon the words were blurring together into a sea of faceless names and even Marisa had to admit that it might be time for a brief respite from her paperwork.

Her dæmon flashed her a smug grin as she entered the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Merlot from the counter and a wine glass from the cupboard. She ignored him, stalking into the lounge and settling on the plush settee with a sigh, the fragrant bouquet of graphite and blackberry and plum swirling pleasantly in her nose as she uncorked the bottle and poured herself a generous glass. The golden monkey appeared moments later, a tin of decadent chocolatl clasped in his hands, artisan delicacies that she’d ordered from Switzerland during a moment of particularly suffocating despair months ago. She took the blatant peace offering from him with a nod and sipped her wine.

By the time the bottle and the tin were both half-empty, Marisa had kicked off her shoes and closed her eyes, a smile toying with her stained lips. She wound her dæmon’s velvet tail around her fingers as she listened to the drumming of the rain outside, the roaring thunder, the vicious lightning, the storm an unstoppable swell of wrath that had no choice but to burst from the clouds and drench the unfortunate souls below. She began to stroke the monkey’s tail more intensely and he began to growl, though not unhappily, when a noise jerked her from her daze. A knock on the door.

She shared a look with her dæmon. “Let’s not answer it,” he said. “It’s so late, and who would be outside in this? It will only be trouble.”

She nodded, but after a few seconds the knock came again, more insistent this time. Marisa tensed.

“Don’t,” her dæmon urged, but the sound wouldn’t stop. Marisa’s nostrils flared as she stalked towards the door and flung it open, frigid rain spattering her stockings as she let the storm inch over the threshold and into the hallway, a face eerily like her own glaring at her from the damp darkness.

When Marisa had been eight years old, a great tempest had rolled through Geneva, the fearsome strength of the wind and the rain like nothing her young eyes had ever seen. The gale had upturned trees and flooded streets and ruined the neat imbrication of their cul-de-sac’s matching roofs, and Marisa had been in awe. They’d sheltered in place for a few days while the worst of it passed, but by the time the wind had dropped to a light breeze and the rain had become a mere patter, Marisa had been itching to explore the damage that had been wrought upon their street.

Her mother had forbidden it, of course, and had doubled down when Marisa explained that a host of creatures and scents and sights would have been torn from the ground now, perhaps not to be seen again until the next great storm passed through. Her interests declared unladylike and improper, she’d had to wait until Maman had retired to her chamber for her afternoon restitution to sneak out into the road, beaming as the petrichor filled her little nose and creatures fled from the upturned trees to the gleaming cobblestones. She’d returned before Maman had roused, already well-attuned to her mother’s movements, but the streaks of mud and damp stockings and filthy fingernails had given her away. She still remembered the feeling of being forced to wash in freezing water as a punishment, not just that day but for many days that followed, howling as another bucket was tipped over her tiny, trembling form, begging her mother for respite.

That was how she felt now, faced with her mother’s furious displeasure, a deep chill rolling through her torso as if she’d just been doused with ice water. Her monkey huddled behind her knees.

“Well?” her mother said. “Aren’t you going to let me in? I have been _pounding_ on this door, all the while wondering if I was going to be left out here to _freeze_ in this ghastly weather. These shoes are _suede_.”

Marisa stared at her. “What are you doing here?” she said, the French rolling effortlessly off her tongue.

Maman clicked her teeth. “One usually waits to ask that question until one’s guest has been safely sheltered from the elements. Though I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you have forgotten your manners.”

Marisa gave a numb nod and stepped to the side, allowing her mother to enter the townhouse, and then accepted the sodden mackintosh and umbrella in silence, hanging them up in the coat closet while her mother fixed her hair in the mirror. Her elegant chignon had somehow escaped the wind and rain unscathed, and the familiar scent of lavender lotion perfused the hallway like a sudden gas leak. Marisa felt her heart start to race. They stared at each other in the low light of the corridor until Maman broke the deadlock with an eyeroll.

“Really, Marisa, is this how you greet visitors?”

Her sharp tone hit Marisa like a shot of adrenaline and she forced her shock to melt into a sweet smile. “Of course not, Maman. I am just surprised to see you, especially at this late hour.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her mother’s powdered cheek. The lavender scent was overpowering and Marisa fought the urge to gag. “Please, come and sit.”

“I had planned to arrive at a more suitable time, but my airship was delayed,” Maman said, shucking off her gloves and placing them over the lip of her handbag as they walked towards the lounge. “Because of the storm. Truly, you’d have thought it was the pilot’s first day in the air, the way the zeppelin shuddered and shook. And the _landing –_ I thought perhaps I’d not make it onto Brytish soil alive.”

“And yet, here you are,” Marisa said tightly, a saccharine smile plastered on her face as she opened the door to the living room and ushered her mother inside. She’d forgotten about the late-nights comforts she’d been indulging in, and her cheek twitched as Maman raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow at the wine and chocolatl left abandoned on the coffee table.

“Marisa,” her mother tutted, pinching her daughter’s waist through the soft cotton of her dress. “You’ll need more discipline than _that_ if you ever want to recover your figure.”

Marisa ignored her. “Would you like a glass?” she said, turning back towards the door.

Her mother’s voice was cold and hard, a stake plunged into frozen ground. “Sit down, Marisa.”

She froze.

“Did you hear me, girl?”

She turned around to face her mother, but did not sit. “What are you doing here, Maman?”

“I told you to sit _down_. I wish to have a proper conversation.”

Marisa sat gingerly on the sofa, facing her mother. Her dæmon came to perch on the back of the furniture, his eyes trained on Maman’s lizard. Marisa remembered her immediate relief at the golden monkey’s settled form: he was beautiful, yes, and capable and striking, and those things were important, but he also had no trouble defending himself against the lizard dæmon’s vicious bites, and as an adolescent, it was that for which she was initially most grateful.

The two women stared at each other, jaws clenched, expressions cool. It was Marisa who broke first. “Maman – ”

“You have _disgraced_ yourself,” Maman said, each syllable soaked in venom. The monkey reached out and grabbed Marisa’s hair as the sound reverberated around the room.

“Maman, please – ”

“Please _what_ , child?”

Marisa winced. “Please stay calm.”

Maman’s eyes bulged. “The _nerve_ of you, Marisa! You spend months at the centre of such a _vulgar_ scandal, and you are telling me to stay _calm?_ After you have destroyed your reputation, sullied your body and estranged yourself from your family? Do you have any idea how much _stress_ you have put me through?”

Marisa clasped her hands between her knees to stop them from clenching into fists. “It’s not as if it has been a pleasant experience for me either,” she said.

“Oh, you are not brazen enough to ask for _sympathy_ , are you? After everything you’ve done?”

Marisa sat up straighter. “I did not ask you to come here, Maman,” she said coldly. “You are the one who showed up on my doorstep.”

“Because my own _daughter_ won’t return my correspondence. I’m just grateful that I still had your address, otherwise I wouldn’t have known _where_ to find you.” Marisa’s fingers twitched, remembering the papers she’d been sent just last week about putting the townhouse on the market.

Her mother was still squalling. “I don’t know where I went wrong with you, Marisa. I wanted you to be extraordinary, and I gave you all the guidance I had within me in service of that. And now you have _destroyed_ everything we’d ever worked for to spread your legs for a man who thought nothing of ruining your life.”

“That is _not_ what happened,” she snapped, and her mother’s dæmon bristled. “You know nothing about it.”

“So the papers were wrong, then? This lord did not shoot your husband? And you had not been having an affair for years, and you had not borne him a bastard child?” Her mother’s eyes glittered with condemnation. “And he is not known for his _heresy?”_

“Oh, Maman, such melodrama,” Marisa said, though her heart was pounding.

“You think your precious lord isn’t known on the continent? The work he does, Marisa, it’s… _sacrilegious._ It would be one thing for you to be an adulterer and a whore, it is quite another for you to tangle yourself up with _heresy_. Were there not more pious men with whom you could have made a mockery of your wedding vows?” Maman narrowed her eyes. “Unless, of course, you are sympathetic to this lord’s blasphemy. Is that it, Marisa?”

She forced herself to take a deep breath. “The press are vultures,” she said. “They will grasp onto any scrap of gossip if it will sell papers. You should know better than to listen to such drivel.”

The lizard clicked, his tail undulating, a warning pose. “Answer me, my child.”

“Of course not!” she said, exasperated. “If you’ve been so diligently scouring the gossip pages then you must have read the account of my testimony too. He seduced me, Maman. It was a grave error, and I am repentant. I – ” She broke off, her throat thickening. “I did not want this circus any more than you did.”

Her mother studied her. “I raised you, Marisa,” Maman said. “Do you think I’ve forgotten the way you used to needle Father Decoux? How you used to question the word of _God?”_

“Maman!” she said. “I made a mistake; a terrible, terrible error. It was the most erroneous slip in judgement. And I am being punished for it, don’t you fear. But I am working _tirelessly_ for the Magisterium in recompense, running myself ragged to serve the Authority. I am _not_ a heretic!”

Her mother tsked. “Oh, Marisa, _do_ keep your voice down, the sound is so terribly grating. And I presume that you do not wish to disturb the child.”

Marisa frowned, her dæmon slinking back as Maman’s mistake settled in her mind. “The child is not here, Maman.”

A pause. “Well, where is it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and Maman’s eyes widened.

As recently as a month ago, it would have been the truth. She’d travelled all the way to Uppsala, used every bit of sway she still possessed in the Magisterium to squeeze information from the child protection officers assigned to her case, but almost as soon as the girl’s whereabouts had been confirmed in the Godstow priory, the Great Flood had swept through Brytain and all but washed her away.

Photograms had been delivered to her of the decimated nunnery and accompanied by a report of several drowned nuns. For a moment, Marisa had wondered if the child had been another victim of the floodwaters, and the vague relief she’d felt had been punctuated with an unexpectedly ferocious despair, so overwhelming that it had made her violently ill. But news of Asriel’s great coup had reached her not long after, the girl safely ensconced in Jordan College under the protection of scholastic sanctuary, Marisa’s presence forbidden as both an associate of the Magisterium and the child’s mother. The letter she’d received had particularly emphasised the latter, and she’d read the sentence several times before throwing the paper into the fire. However, her mother did not need to know this; truly the last thing she needed was to add Maman to list of people who had a vested interest in the child’s location.

She’d initially felt fury upon hearing the news of Asriel’s rescue: that he’d beaten her in the race to deduce the girl’s whereabouts; that he’d had the audacity to bar her from seeing a child that was as much hers as his; that he’d left the girl at _Jordan_ , of all places, to live among decrepit male scholars. But as the days dripped on, she found thoughts of the girl fading to the back of her mind, knowing that the Magisterium would not barge in and upturn the sacred provision of scholastic sanctuary to seize a baby that would not be able tell them anything about the prophecy for many years. She also knew that, despite the anger Asriel was clearly trying to cultivate towards her, both in himself and others, if she truly wanted to stride into Jordan and retrieve her daughter it would be an undemanding task. All the obstacles between her and the girl were just men, after all.

As soon as that realisation had dawned on her, her desire to seek out the child had been extinguished like a flame smothered by a blanket, and the last few weeks had been the first time in months she’d felt something akin to relaxation, after months of relentless tension sitting in her stomach like a stone every hour of every day. The unexpected presence of her mother had, of course, reincited that tension with a vengeance.

“You _don’t know?”_ Maman said.

“She’s in a priory, in the care of the Magisterium. I don’t know where.”

“She?” her mother said, and Marisa nodded. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought that Maman’s eyes had softened. “You had a daughter.”

“Yes.” Marisa frowned. “You didn’t know?”

The lizard let out a hiss. “How could I have known? The papers only referred to her as your…” Maman shivered. “ _…love child_ , and _you_ did not answer a single one of my letters, nor have you had the _decency_ to come home to Geneva and explain yourself.”

“I have been very busy.”

Maman’s eyes blazed. “The _audacity_ , Marisa! I don’t know what I did to deserve such _insolence_ from my own child.” The lizard was chittering now, its spiteful jaws gnashing. The monkey leapt down to crouch beside Marisa and bared his teeth. “And how can you be so busy? No husband, no baby. Why, the _hours_ I’d have had if I hadn’t had to care for you and your brother.”

“I told you, I am working for the Magisterium. For the Authority, Maman.”

Maman pursed her lips. “Doing _what_ , exactly? What could possibly be keeping you so busy that you haven’t had time to visit your mother in over a _year_ and apologise for your tawdry behaviour?”

Marisa placed a hand on her dæmon’s fiery back, the long-suppressed desire to impress her mother surging through her, anthrax released from thawing permafrost. “I have set up a new organisation, designed to root out heresy from more private locations: schools, homes, and families themselves. Many children have joined us and the early results are very promising. There are many dutiful young people, it seems, who understand that devotion to the Magisterium is more important than _anything._ Even family.” She shot her mother a pointed look.

Maman’s eyes were narrowed, but Marisa could see the hint of pride in her beady gaze. “For now, we are only in Brytain, though I hope to expand into more of Europe soon. We’re growing rapidly, Maman, so rapidly: hundreds of students each week.” Marisa found herself smiling. “It’s very exciting.”

“And what is this organisation called, if I am permitted to know such a detail?”

“The League of St Alexander.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “That’s _you?”_

The feel of triumph was intoxicating. Marisa twirled her fingers in her dæmon’s lustrous fur. “You know it?”

“Of course. It has been a frequent topic of discussion back at home. _Very_ complimentary discussion, I might add.” Maman tilted her head. “But your name has not been mentioned once.”

The twirls became a pinch and the golden monkey stiffened. “It is not deemed desirable to associate it with me at this present moment,” she said. “But it’s my initiative, I assure you. That’s why I’m working so hard, don’t you see? I am doing good work, Maman – _important_ work – and if I do enough then all this nasty business with Asriel will be forgotten, I am sure of it. They will accept me again. They’ll have no choice.”

“And you think this League will be enough?”

“The League is just the start,” Marisa said, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling. “I have so many plans, Maman. This is only the beginning, and I will not fail, I promise you. Not again.”

Maman raised an eyebrow. “Until the _next_ handsome heretic wanders into your peripheral vision…”

Marisa’s nostrils flared and her dæmon snarled. Maman let out a short, savage laugh. “I see you have no better control of _him_ than you did the last time I saw you.” She flashed her daughter a cruel smile. “Which is to be expected, I suppose, given that you apparently no longer have control over yourself.”

Marisa gripped the monkey’s fur in one tight fist and his growls ceased. Her mother looked pleased. “That’s not fair, Maman – ”

“Isn’t it? Widowed, disgraced, ostracised. You may be working diligently but you have received no credit for it. All this _fuss_ , this _drama_ , because you couldn’t keep your knees closed.”

Marisa leapt to her feet, chest heaving. “I will not be spoken to like this in my own house,” she said.

“It is _Edward’s_ house – ”

“No, it is _mine_ ,” Marisa said. “I was seduced. I was young and foolish and swept up in the charms of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and I am doing everything in my power to repent, and no one can prove otherwise. I am a grieving widow and my dead husband’s property is now _mine._ And that makes this house mine to throw you out of, if you won’t address me with respect.”

Her mother swiped a hand across her brow, her eyes fluttering closed. “Oh, Marisa, why must you speak to me in this coarse way?”

“You spoke to me like this first!”

“Please,” Maman said, swooning, her dæmon scuttling up to her cloying neck. “Fetch me some tea. Camomile, if you have it. Your _emotions_ , my dear, they are too much for me to bear. They always have been.”

Marisa stalked into the kitchen and sunk to her knees, her head in her hands. The golden monkey crouched beside her. “I told you that we shouldn’t have opened the door,” he said, trying for humour, and the smack Marisa gave him brought tears to her eyes.

He stayed a safe distance from her as she brewed the tea with trembling hands and returned to the lounge, settling on the opposite arm of the sofa now, rather than behind or beside her like before. Maman was no longer in her seat by the time Marisa returned with the beverages: now, her mother was on the other side of the room, peering intently at the photograms on the mantlepiece as she toyed loosely with her pearl necklace. Marisa could see which picture currently held her mother’s attention: the crown jewel of her wedding album, Marisa radiant in white satin, Edward beaming beside her in his morning suit. She put the mugs down with a thud but Maman didn’t stir.

“You really were a beautiful bride, my sweet.”

On the day itself, Maman had only had criticisms of her outfit: her makeup was too gauche for such a young bride, her waist too thick, as always, the satin an inferior choice to the lace Maman had preferred at the boutique. It was a true talent of her mother’s, Marisa thought: to withhold a compliment for long enough that its eventual deployment was a deft attack.

She moved to stand beside her mother, her eyes anchored on the rain outside the window, avoiding the photogram. 

“I was so proud of you when you married Edward,” Maman said, and Marisa swallowed. “I know that there are… _challenges_ to marrying an older man, but you were able to look past those because of what else he could offer you. He was a good match for you. I thought – ” She paused, her eyes glistening. “I thought you would have a good life with him. That he would give you what you needed. What you _deserved._ ”

Marisa said nothing, still watching the rain hammer down. 

Maman’s voice was harsh and low. “Did you really give away your child?”

Marisa closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“How _could_ you?” Maman said. “After you’d brought her into the world and held her to your breast?”

“How could I not?” Marisa replied, her voice ragged. “ _Especially_ after I’d done those things. It was awful, Maman, the pregnancy, childbirth; it was all so _base_. The thought of more was unbearable.”

Her mother looked at her as if she was simple. “Of course it’s unbearable, my darling. Every minute of it. But it is your duty. Motherhood is a sacred task.”

That made her laugh and Maman glared. They stood in silence for a moment, Marisa watching the rain, Maman still examining Marisa’s wedding photogram.

“You will come home to Geneva.”

Marisa’s eyes widened. “No, I will not.”

“Yes, you will, and you will bring the girl too. We will ascertain her whereabouts and return her to her rightful place – her _family_ – and you and she can live with me.”

Marisa shook her head. “No, Maman. No.”

Maman clasped Marisa’s cheeks in her palms, the scent of her lotion nauseating. “My dear, my love, you have simply lost your way,” she said, and Marisa felt her eyes fill with tears. “You need more guidance, that’s all, a firm hand, to be reminded of your duties, your proper place in this world.”

She tried to pull away but Maman tightened her grip. “I am not coming back with you. My life is here.”

“You _will_ come back,” Maman said, her eyes hard and bright. “Listen to me, my child, I can see the path you’re on and I cannot abide it. I will not stand by and watch you debase yourself any further. Come home to Mother, I will care for you, and for her, as drenched in sin as she may be.”

Tears fell down Marisa’s cheeks and moistened her mother’s thumbs. “No,” she said hoarsely. “ _No_.”

“You may work if you wish – what better place to run your league than Geneva? – and I will care for the girl. You can still be extraordinary, my daughter, my darling…” Maman was sniffing now, her own eyes watering. “You are not ruined yet. Not to me. You can be _redeemed._ And I will guide you both.”

Marisa closed her eyes and suppressed a sob. “Maman,” she said, her hands trembling. “Let me go.”

Maman’s grasp tightened on her face. “Marisa,” she said, her teeth now gritted. “You will do as I say. I am your _mother_ , dear girl. No one wants better for you than I do. No one will ever love you like I can. Especially now.” She pulled Marisa’s head down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Come home with me, my sweet. Come home to where you _belong._ ”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “ _No._ ” Marisa jerked back, wrenching herself from her mother’s vice grip. Maman’s eyes darkened. The lizard began to hiss and snap on her shoulder, but the monkey’s growl was deeper and fiercer, and his teeth bigger and sharper. Maman took a step back as the golden dæmon prowled towards her.

“I am never coming back to you,” Marisa said. “There is no pit of despair deep or dark enough to make me crawl back into your clutches.”

“ _Marisa –_ ”

“And I’d sooner lie beneath every member of the Magisterium than let you get your hands on the child.”

Maman’s cheeks were flushed. “You impertinent, ungrateful _whore_.”

“So _decorous_ , Maman,” Marisa simpered, as she wiped her tears.

“ _You –_ ”

“Careful,” Marisa said, towering over her mother, enjoying the way the lizard-dæmon was skittering. “You wouldn’t want anyone asking where I get my depravity from, would you?”

They held each other’s gaze, both women shaking, their dæmons poised and tense. Then the clock struck eleven and Marisa shook her head lightly, as if emerging from a trance. “It’s late,” she said, her smile serene. “You should leave.”

“You’re going to turn your own mother out onto the street?”

“My guest room is being redecorated,” she said, not bothering to disguise the lie. “There’s a bridge nearby that vagrants sleep under when it rains. Perhaps that will suffice.”

Maman’s eyes flamed, but her retort remained crushed between her teeth. “Your brother booked me a hotel,” she admitted, and Marisa stifled an eyeroll.

“Of course he did.”

She watched impassively as her mother dressed in the hallway, ensuring that her monkey remained between the two of them at all times, his teeth bared and muscles taut, ready to strike. The rain was still pouring when she opened the door and gestured to the street, her mother’s lips pursing at the sight of the storm.

“Oh, Marisa, my dear, don’t be so _cruel_. I will get so drenched before I find a taxi, my shoes will be _ruined –_ ”

“Goodbye, Maman,” she said, the monkey’s hiss disturbing her mother enough that she stepped out onto the doorstep in surprise.

Marisa moved to close the door, but her mother raised her arm to the wood. “Answer me one question,” she said, rain spattering her perfect hair, her curls already coming loose in the downpour.

Marisa sighed. “Alright.” 

“Her name.”

She froze. “What?”

“The child you sent away. _Your_ daughter. What is her _name?”_

Marisa stood there, her mouth hanging open, her tongue and teeth floundering in the face of a word she’d never uttered aloud. Maman smirked and lifted her umbrella above her head.

“It’s probably for the best,” she said, reaching out to stroke Marisa’s cheek, smiling as her daughter flinched from her touch. “Children really are the most terrible burden.”

Then Marisa closed the door and her mother was gone.

She stood in the hallway for a moment, her heart pounding, trying in vain to control her breathing. The golden monkey let out a whimper, and then Marisa’s neck snapped up and she lunged for him, chasing him back into the lounge as he ran from her. He managed to reach the top of the bookcase before Marisa could ensnare him, and so she grabbed a cushion and clutched it to her chest as she sunk to her knees on the floor, her torso shuddering as rage coursed through her veins like it was her lifeblood. She trembled on the floor, her cheeks hot, filled with a fury so potent she thought it might tear her in two.

The room was silent as she shook on the carpet, a few tears leaching into the cushion she was grasping, the only sound the continued brawl of the thunderstorm in the sky above. Marisa watched the rain smash onto the street like millions of tiny bullets, saw the lightning flash with enough energy to strike a man dead, and wondered what damage she could do if only she could harness this pulsing, roiling, white-hot rage inside her, what power could spring from the abyss of anger that had been deftly moulded by the actions of others, men whose faces she would never know, men whose faces she would never forget, a cry that sometimes pierced her dreams, and a woman whose spiteful eyes glared back at her every time she tried to bear witness to herself, her mother’s cruellest trick yet, a ceaseless reminder that Maman’s venom was buried so deeply within her that it suffused her very being, so deeply that God Himself could surely not excise it. She pressed her face into the cushion and roared. Her dæmon placed his hands over his ears, and turned away.

**Author's Note:**

> So angsty for Christmastime, I apologise! Maman was a difficult character to write - she’s only present for ~8 pages of the Secret Commonwealth - but I did my best to keep her in character. Does this feel like TSC’s Madame Delamare to you, or do you imagine her differently?


End file.
